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A boy stands – –
– – and bears no crude telling—no rabbit-eyed, cog-laced moniker.
and the vital ever-drone of mortal pattering
precedes him.
( and he could’ve sworn they came to carve a sea of rulers—
crook-and-tallied with mortimer limbs and drowned in belly-fulls of
tellurian fauxcider ; – spiced with Neptune and an inkling of bluebird salt,as the recipe goes—)

A boy stands – –
– – and in creeping tow—waft scabrous hands:
exiles off the charted vales of Drosselmeyer — the old lore-lusting cadaver.
they arc and cast airs like hexed harpoons, ailing mimickers of graver portents—
of the long-horned Final Days.
( he keeps a keychain for a token of such looming times:
a shapen Babylon bodied with toyland-scrapers
and no miniature harlot in sight. )

A boy stands – –
– – eyes poised as parlours for the twilit homeless and marbled—( oh-so beyond-ly—)
as chromallyn compasses.i am misfit,croons the aurora down the spineless canal, past the vorpal loft that teems (startling) with wind-up comets (and a giddy rocking-horse rhyme- -)
(and while the earth spins a maw out of matcha-foil and plays society’s latrine for all-dastardly-time- -)the attic resides in the heart, pulsed with wonderland readings—
to this, he endeav

gestation in the vitreous moor- –
self-charted. i confess
to have helmed the orchestration in ninth-degree– -and is it so wrong to bare a blister
in the geo-cryptic light of terra-gloria?

ave bioticum. “

mundane power to the fireflies- –
that tower on crucifixion stilts.
one haggard piercing, to two—
maroon foibles in the spilling-forth’s- – and– -and is there more to us than mercantile famethan troves of trade-away rhythms and screws, tomount on { the Idol that looms tartarean: –
– eater of warts in the numinous dark. }

mundane power to me as- –
I plunder, capture
confiscated blemishes at quaking-large.
pilfered from the dire womb that threatens
ceramic expulsion- –set to mannequin heights and doctored values thatblaspheme us. blaspheme us

and I shall, if I shall- –

– -return the warts;
to naked codex
to library of fleshhood.
where the code of Us contrives a havoc to remember.

to the { pantheon of the morgue } , thou best bestow
offerings of an ilk no mortal should know :

x

unto Crescent Death , a palmful of amber shivers
– – to go fetchingly with the glimmer-blade that nips and dances and demon-prances
in the shelter of the keyhole-eye of Styx’s virgin coffer.— { } —
[[ the fanged un-deity should soon tell you–
–in strains wicked and mechanical, Cheshire cogs a-rattling for a knell–
that she likes them better stained with b l o o d . ]]

x

unto Half Death , a sliver of the deadest blue
– – see the phobo{scope} bare in its fractal readings:
sorrow-limbed breaths, violet-dyed {{ ….violent-. diedall over its mid-mortal anatomica— { } —
[[ such an offering should do to appease a youthscapeof starlets razed to plasmaNaughtby rending, retch-mongering ” v i r t u e “. ]]

x

unto Waning Death , a feather for an ink-doused thought
– – to accord a speck of beauty where ashes have long scribed
embered penance
into the left-over bones from monochrome expunged.— { } —
[[ and o brazen one, it is better to
pretend that you see not, covet not–
the butterfly graves that simmer a wistful, weeping froth
amidst her smoldering toes. ]]

x

and last of all , unto Waxing Death
an amethyst or two, to plant in city squares
of arachnid craft by the hands of stygian-garbed architects–
–and deeper still even, past neon shallows into atria wherein
brews the Primeval Dusk of the Morgue.— { } —
[[ if thou should dare plunge to gift–
–tread carefully.
for no hollower a domain is there in this realm
than the heart of the Waxing Death. ]]

there is a storm in my mind i can’t quell,
though with chipped, tearing fingers i have tried.
and as a result, i have ravaged them down to a mess of mangled seams,
a mess that resigns itself with bumbling haste into its nether, earthy grave
ever breathing ghosts of supplication into the chasmic bay of an ever-condemning night
a night stippled with star-eyes trenchantly glaring, each pointedly huddled away from my scrabbling, mortal scopes,
each pompously cradled in overhead navy nooks of lofty assurance.

–

there is a storm in my mind i can’t smother,
though with ragged, lurching lungs i have tried.
nursed a kingdom of faux-cries that fall wheezingly short of clarion caliber, each one thawing unloved and in a sorrowful, wailing hurry, desperate to be rid of their shriveling scorned selves.why ever were we made, come the lamentations, ridden with blood and silver whipped into a demented, roiling rouxand why was i

–

there is a storm in my mind i can’t tame,
though a whip was accorded to me, in days distantly bygone
i held it and let my blood surge loose, left to conspire with the tenebrous voice of my infant ire
let my blood unearth a wicked calling, engorge a vile commission from an audience of devils with voracious glee
but alas, the rapacious fall farthest, are bidden to kiss and couple wretchedly with the deepest abyss.
…. i withdrew my whip and stepped duly back
into the heart of the storm in my mind.

He perches on wraith-like tiptoe upon a lilac-clothed apex, engorged in lambent washes of a prodigal effect and breeding chroma-blades that gnaw contours loose and wedge bloated gaps into tautening, hissing junctures of ink.

And from these expunging agencies, a gingerly crowning relish blooms, slathering visions of lush vines and pastel flora across blood-scented corridors, in the chinks of paper bone and the jittery notches of a heaving heart. A blooming conquest tamed, quelled and freed from a silverwood sepulchre, spilled at no tyrant’s behest over a brittle, aching chassis of bio-signs that frolic in timed, nihilistic motion.

The ceaseless pulses of this unworldly incursion send tactile messengers afoot, a cavalry of beacons that plunge sensation into skin and draw secret banshees from their hiding places, screeching ripples and spewing throbs as nerves ascend in frantic benediction.

There are days when you feel an overwhelming sense of emptiness, bubbling up from inside you as it proliferates across the mite-sized intricacies of the life-sustaining bio-machinery installed within the capsule of your being, pumping and pulsating in utmost synchronicity with the seconds of this transient world — seconds that flutter by on abstract wings.

How much you feed it, how much you unwittingly nurture the malignant seed of discord planted at the base of your heart — from the very hour your conception is defined, the very second the tactile awareness of your being makes its indelible mark on the tattered records on which this world is built — is what ultimately shapes your end.

There is no way to curb its imminent birth, though with this seed, we have been granted a freedom. A freedom to do with it as we wish.

Without warning, the golden-haired boy arches forward from his seat, and Kouhei reels as a stark sense of alarm leaks freely from his features — one that slowly evolves into a simmering petulance. “W-what the heck are you–?”

He stutters to a halt as Takato leans closer, green eyes wide and unrelenting. His features are but mere inches from his own, and as their diminishing proximity teeters on the precipice of non-existence, Kouhei finds the palpitations within his chest scaling rapidly up the frequency chart.

“T-Takato– you–“

Sniff.

What follows is nothing but a clueless, single-eyed blink.

“Hmmm,” Takato muses, cupping his chin as he draws back. “It does kinda’ smell like one.”